


The One Inescapable Thing

by sycamoretree



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotp, Heaven, Terminal Illnesses, Trapped, Wounds, brotp4, portamis if you want to see it, prompted character death, set after season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-11 14:18:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2071509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamoretree/pseuds/sycamoretree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for prompt on the BBC Musketeers kink meme: Over the years D'Artagnan witnesses the death of his close friends until he is the last one alive, and one day dies and sees them all again. (http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1213.html?thread=2323133#cmt2323133)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Treville

_You'll walk unscathed through musket fire -_ You Will Be My Ain True Love, Alison Krauss, Sting

 

D’Artagnan shifted from foot to foot restlessly.

The intense battle had come to a silent end once the thunderous noise of fired muskets and swinging rapiers disappeared. The hostile mercenaries had been defeated by the musketeers.

The Royal family was safe, if shocked in their tent which was now surrounded by protective and yet shaken guards in case of another charge, but no-one emerged from the forest in the east.

Bodies lay strewn on the leafy ground, and d’Artagnan quivered from the horror. So many dressed in blue cloaks had perished.

He trained his weary eyes on the sight in front of him, willed his breath to calm, and lowered his arm which shook from exertion. His sword left a trail of blood on the brown and red leaves.

He was standing a bit back and observed how Aramis sat with Treville’s head resting on his lap. Porthos had removed both his and the Captain’s gauntlets and was cradling Treville’s left hand between his as he breathed hotly over the pale fingers. And Athos was kneeling with one knee on the ground beside his fallen commander. Those three had known Treville the longest compared to the rest of the regiment.

D’Artagnan felt like a lost boy but he allowed the small group of men peace and time to say goodbye. Treville grimaced and his right hand pressed against his side where a fine bloodflow steadily warmed his cold hand.

Porthos’ damp eyes darted to Aramis who shook his head.

“The dagger went too deep. There is a severe internal bleeding. To sew would capture the blood inside and agonize him. This is less painful.”

Treville gave a tired huff and through gritted teeth he emitted, “Say _less painful_ one more time, and my boot will find you.”

“You shouldn’t speak, Captain,” Athos stated. He received a withering glare that lacked the usual fire. D’Artagnan wrapped his arms around himself, wishing he could expel the hollowness inside. They were losing Treville.

The dying man rolled his head sideways and took in Athos.

“To what end? If I don't speak now, I'll never have another chance. Fools. But you have your moments.”

Porthos’ shoulders shook and he rubbed Treville’s hand more fervently. “Forgive us, Captain. We should have shielded you.”

Against his manners, Treville remained angled to Athos when he answered Porthos. He was too weak to turn his head again.

“Your foremost duty was to protect the Royal family. You succeeded. I pay for my own fallacy.”

“He came at your back with a dagger! He was a dishonorable coward. There was no error from your part, Captain,” Aramis exclaimed and he placed his hand on Treville’s crown in comfort.

Treville opened his mouth but before his voice sounded, a long groan left him and his eyes widened in fear. But not for himself, D’Artagnan soon realized.

“Athos, it’s time,” Treville said with urgency and then he withdrew his right hand from the wound. Porthos let out an anguished wail, and Aramis clutched his cross and began to pray.

Treville managed to raise his hand and placed it over Athos’ heart; smearing blood on the doublet and letting the blood flow all the quicker from his injury.

“Lead them,” Treville urged.

The lines tightened around Athos’ lips, but Treville pressed harder on his chest and Athos rocked back from the force.

“ _Lead_ _them_.”

Athos bowed his head. That was to be the last command from Treville, because his hand slid down and fell on Athos’ lap. A last shuddering breath struggled through the battered body and then Treville’s eyes were dull.

D’Artagnan stopped moving. Not a sound left the musketeers in the clearing for a moment. Athos stared at the deceased man as if contemplating something profound.

It was Porthos who arranged Treville’s hands on his belly with the uttermost care. Aramis let the burden in his lap rest on the cold ground and closed the eyelids before he stood and no glee was left in his fatigued face.

“Athos?” he asked aloud with the formal voice of a soldier. D’Artagnan’s mentor stayed immobile by Treville’s side. Aramis stepped around the body and placed one hand on his friend’s shoulder, shaking it.

“Where will we carry Treville’s body, Captain?” Aramis respectfully inquired.

That had Athos tearing his gaze from Treville and looking up at Aramis who awaited an order. D’Artagnan saw the first glimpse of a budding future without Treville in the garrison. The musketeers would carry on like any citizen when the throne received a new ruler. _The King is dead. Long live the King!_

Athos didn’t flinch, but neither did he relish the title. He merely accepted it. The task had been passed onto him now to lead a garrison of musketeers. He had been readied and groomed by Treville for years for this moment. It was time for Athos to step up to the final level in the regiment and take his rightful and earned place as Captain. All his three friends and their fellow musketeers had faith in him.

“Take him to the cleanest bedroll and wash him. My duty is to find His Majesty and inform him of the loss.”

“And to tell him of Treville’s last wish and your promotion, I trust?” Porthos let out through tears and Athos clasped a hand around Porthos’ broad arm.

“I hope the King will see the sense in following another advice from Treville. His last one.”

When Athos passed d’Artagnan and gave him an impenetrable look, the younger musketeer straightened his back and greeted him neutrally with a clipped, “Captain.”


	2. Athos

_Once more into the fray_  
 _Into the last good fight I'll ever know_  
 _Live and die on this day_  
 _Live and die on this day_   - Untitled poem from the movie The Grey

The day they lost Athos wasn't as serene, harmonious, or far off in time as they all had expected. As they all thought Athos deserved.

The initial endeavour to spend a few days roaming the lands around Paris on horseback in the late summer had seemed like an innocent trip to paradise. Three recently retired, bored, former musketeers badgered d'Artagnan into taking some time away from the garrison he led as Captain, and away from his family if only to remember to miss them on this small adventure. Constance had eagerly waved him off when his friends on their horses fetched him from his home, and their two children had shamelessly shouted at Porthos to bring back something sweet for them.

For days, the four men had laughed, talked, teased, and raced each other with their horses. Although Athos had upheld his strict countenance and his hat for sheltering his eyes from the sun, he had offered private smiles under the brim every so often. D'Artagnan had thought him tired, glad for the trip and the company certainly, but calm in his joy as was Athos' ways.

But as so many times before, a seemingly pleasant respite on the roads along harvesting farmers and travelling merchants soon turned ill-omened when fate wanted a more dramatic, violent danger to be washed over them.

"We have you tra-apped!" the cruel voice crooned outside the creaky cabin where d'Artagnan and his companions had taken refuge in. Although, the refuge was highly temporary, as the band of highwaymen had surrounded the house and occasionally opened fire and threatened to set it on fire unless the party surrendered themselves. Aramis had already flung a knife through a broken window, which killed one robber who hoped to make a fire by one corner of the house.

Conscious of the perils on the roads leading through forests, the experienced four men had brought one musket each, but their ranged firearms were currently attached to the saddles of the bolted horses. They were outnumbered; armed only with rapiers and the occasional dagger, trapped, and in Porthos' case; wounded.

D'Artagnan slithered from his seated position beside a quiet Athos, who hid his face behind his hat, probably dozing. D'Artagnan got onto his belly before he crawled across the cold, murky floorboards to the opposite wall where Aramis tended to Porthos with practically nothing.

The motion caused the hunger to flare in d'Artagnan's empty stomach. One night and one day had they spent in the cold house where the wind blew freely and where twenty-three men abided their surrender with torches in the night to cast a firm light on the one door leading out, and with growing impatience during the next day. Those highwaymen wouldn't let their prey escape. There had been talk of taking them as captives and demand ransom from their loved ones. But the talk of torture and gruesome death had begun to ring louder in the group of wolves.

D'Artagnan knew what his friends also knew. It wouldn't be too long before the men's patience waned completely and they either bombarded the fragile cabin with every bullet they possessed, or stormed it no matter how many of their men would perish during the invasion.

D'Artagnan swallowed miserably to soothe his aching belly as he pulled himself up into a seated position with Porthos between himself and Aramis.

"How is he?" he asked. The frayed smile Aramis offered him spoke of the gravity of the situation. Porthos didn't contain a wince when Aramis lifted his left arm to show d'Artagnan.

"Without new, clean bandages infection will set in. We need a proper physician. This is beyond my skills. He might lose the arm."

Porthos coughed but huffed through a shiver, "Good riddance. Never favoured my left anyway."

The words Porthos had uttered sounded slurred and Aramis looked even more worried. When Aramis, who had sought more knowledge of healing the wounded after he formally retired as active musketeer, even if he therefore wheedled his way back into d'Artagnan's garrison as a good physician, wore a serious expression, it was a bad sign. Aramis placed a slightly wrinkled hand on Porthos' dry forehead.

"And the fever has set in. He needs water," Aramis ended his examination with sadly.

"We all do," d'Artagnan added quietly and Porthos made a protesting noise and batted away Aramis' hand from his face.

"'m fine! 'm fine; just let me rest!"

Aramis sighed and sat back with his knees raised and a hand anxiously carding through his hair where grey locks intertwined with black falsely gave strangers the impression that they saw a distinguished old man past his prime when Aramis was ever the childish, restless, bold rascal.

Porthos on the other hand leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, and cradled his injured arm. D'Artagnan had sacrificed the hem of his shirt for bandages, but every one of the surrounding men was dirtied and had perspired. There were no clean bandages to be found here.

Suddenly overcome with exhaustion, and not a small amount of irritation at their dire situation in what should have been a refreshing journey, d'Artagnan rubbed hands over his face and the rugged beard that had been left unkempt in their distress.

"We need to get out of here," he said behind his hands. The responsibility of a Captain was prickling his insides even though he wasn't in the company of trusting youngsters, but seasoned and retired friends.

Suddenly Athos shifted across the cabin and d'Artagnan almost startled for he had believed Athos had truly fallen asleep. While still lurking under his hat, Athos spoke in direction of the floor.

"I will surrender myself. That ought to provide you with enough distraction and time to escape. I've constructed a plan which should be infallible.”

Silence rung out in the room and even Porthos seemed to become invigourated by the insane outburst.

"What?" d'Artagnan emitted through a tense chuckle, unease tearing his insides apart.

Athos squared his shoulders as he remained sitting on the dusty floor. Somehow Athos was still managing to give off an air of haughty, dignified aristocracy even while cowering by the opposite wall.

"They won't give in until they get at least one of us in their clutches. Whether they attempt to burn the cabin, invade it, or smoke us out, they will succeed in the long run. We will get worse odds the longer we stay here, starving and wounded. If I hand myself over, you have a fair chance surviving. You must run before Porthos gets too weak."

This time it was Porthos who answered him with a heaving chest and paler cheeks. "We're not leaving you!"

Athos actually huffed a smile and d'Artagnan glanced at Aramis whose eyes began to burn with barely controlled fury, whether for Athos upsetting Porthos or for the outrageous plan Athos was suggesting.

 "What is this insanity which has struck you, my _dearest_ brother? Why would we ever consider that as the one _infallible_ plan if it means we're leaving you behind amongst enemies?"

Leather groaned when Athos wrapped his arms around himself, as if hesitant. D'Artagnan was shocked when Athos sounded almost... guilty.

"My friends; there's something I haven't told you, as I have hidden the signs of the truth."

"Athos, you're scaring me," d'Artagnan murmured. Athos embraced himself all the tighter and raised his face into the light of the declining sun. D'Artagnan realized that this was the first time he really had gotten a good look of Athos' face on this journey. What should have been a familiar sight turned marred when Athos looked shamed and kept his eyes downcast.

"Look at me. Really look at me," Athos whispered and finally lifted his gaze and his three friends stared without knowing what to say. The signs were there, clearly written on the skin of a dying man.

Yellow hue stood out starkly against the greying beard. Yellow in the whites clashed with the blue in Athos' eyes. His cheeks were remarkably gaunt from malnutrition. Dark rings below the coloured eyes spoke of a fatigue beyond normal.

"No," Porthos breathed and Athos closed his eyes for a second before opening them when Aramis all but launched himself like a bullet over the floor and began moving his hands over Athos' clothes.

"How bad is it? It is possible to regain health if it hasn't gone too far, mind you. How have you been feeling lately?" Aramis rapidly threw himself into examining Athos with hands and questions, and was only betrayed by his frail tone. Athos dared to smile a little once more as he endured the attention.

"I'm nauseous all the time. I can't stomach bread and cheese anymore. I'm exhausted by doing nothing."

Porthos released a querying moan and d'Artagnan scooted closer to offer his shoulder for support. Aramis grimace revealed how bad Athos' condition was when his gloved hands reached the belly.

"You're starving but swollen here."

"I'm aware. This wasn't quite how I had imagined myself as a fat old man."

"Shut up!" Aramis hissed and pressed down gently low on Athos' stomach. "How's your stool?"

"Eager to leave me? It's gotten more and more unexpected," Athos dutifully replied and his blush barely shone through the yellow on the surface of his cheeks.

"How do you feel here," Aramis asked and moved his fingers higher. Immediately, Athos winced and twisted away from the touch. His pants were heard in every corner of the cabin.

"Hurts like a gun wound. I know my fate, as do you, Aramis. I’m a lost cause. My own physician in Paris agreed with me. My days are counted.”

"What? Are you so ill?" d'Artagnan asked while his world was tilting before his eyes and water rushed over his ears. Athos reached for Aramis' now limp hands and clasped them to placate his friend from the previously brusque flinch. Then, Athos fastened his compelling, soothing blue eyes on d'Artagnan and d'Artagnan's worry receded.

"My liver is broken. I have all the symptoms. It's my own fault."

"It's the drinking," Aramis added with grief in his voice and d'Artagnan turned his hopeful eyes to the physician at hand.

"But he stopped that habit a decade ago."

Aramis offered him that pitying smile adults offered innocent children who didn't understand. "But the damage had already been done. This kind of poisoning can take years to fully affect the body. Some recover, some don't. Our Athos is one of the unlucky ones."

Athos rested his head against Aramis' arm and looked at d'Artagnan. "So you see; you _can_ leave me behind. You've done so before.

Porthos let out a rare curse before he growled, "That time you almost burned with you mansion!" Athos smiled wryly but his expression soon turned fonder.

As a Captain of the King's musketeers, d'Artagnan felt he had to try to save the legendary one even if his fate seemed bleak.

 “The odds are better if all four try to break out…” he pointed out when he was brutally cut off.

Athos argued sharply, “Not when three are all but guaranteed to live and one will die anyway. Do you remember the loss of your own father, d’Artagnan? I do, because I have rarely seen such vehemence aimed at my person since you stalked into the garrison and demanded revenge by duel. Would you risk yourself so Sandrine and Alexandre shall have to be subjected to a fatherless future at such a tender age? Do you know what fate you condemn them to without a loving and paid father? How would Constance fare as a widow? Even doles from our ranks wouldn’t cover all the expenses, and the ambitions for your family. She would have to remarry. Now, get out of this damned house and go home to them!”

Stunned by the speech, d'Artagnan inched closer against Porthos' side. At length, he uttered with a far too brittle voice for a commanding Captain, "I don't want you to die."

Athos rubbed a hand over his weary face and bowed his head in silent apology before he spoke. "I know. I also know that I am dying regardless. But don't feel guilt, my old friend. You've saved my life so many times before and granted me more time. This is something you unfortunately can't save me from. Let me at least save your life one more time."

D'Artagnan noticed how the front of his shirt was becoming dotted with tears that fell from Porthos' long lashes. "I don't suppose there's any way for us to change your mind and nurse you back to health?" Porthos sniffed and his hitched sobs vibrated through d'Artagnan.

Athos sounded shaken as well when he said, "You have more to lose than I do if you stay here with me. I’m doomed, but you’re not yet. Don’t put your lives on my consciousness. I couldn’t watch you perish.”

“But you put your life on our consciousness!” Porthos accused but Athos openly disagreed.

“No, because I choose this for me. How much longer do I have, Aramis? A month? Weeks? A few days? I know that if I can have a say in what I give my life for, it would rather be to protect you than to slowly wither in a bed of degradation. I couldn’t stand finding my mind slipping from me and leave me a confused man. This is a scenario I find worthy of my presence. Let me have this.” He didn’t say please, but he didn’t have to beg. Porthos buried his face in d'Artagnan's sleeve.

Aramis patted his leaning brother's yellow neck and vowed into his still thick hair, "Your sacrifice will not be in vain. We shall honour it by living.”

D'Artagnan began to feel the sting of loss and murmured, "This will break Sandrine’s little heart.” The heart of the impulsive, stubborn, eight-year old Sandrine who to everyone’s surprise had latched onto the somber Athos and proclaimed him her favorite ‘uncle’.

Athos almost cried but he never lost his gallantry.

“Please offer your daughter my apologies for not escorting her on her first presentation to the court. But I believe I have an acceptable excuse. I’m sparing her father’s life."

***

As the sun reached the horizon some time later, it became apparent that they were losing time as the crowd outside turned more vicious in their insults. D'Artagnan understood the awful injustice. The sun and the time didn’t abide a dying man. Athos was dying regardless of his current way of living.

Currently the ill man sat huddled together with Porthos and Aramis by the other wall and conversed with them quietly. He was saying goodbye. Reluctant to interrupt the tender moment between old comrades, d'Artagnan fitted his knees in the span of his arms; feeling like a schooled boy wanting to scrape his boots anxiously against the floorboards.

“Why does the Captain himself linger in the shadows?”

It was his friend, mentor, and former Captain who asked and d'Artagnan immediately ducked his head. “I will not intrude on your privacy,” he explained with sorrow and received a grunt from Porthos.

“Soon thirty-four and still a whelp in spirit, if not in body. Come here, you.”

The younger man approached the other wall on his haunches, cautiously below the windows.

 Once at their side, Athos lifted a hand and fitted it comfortingly against d'Artagnan's nape.

"What are you thinking about, Captain?" Athos whispered and d'Artagnan felt no need to hide the damp in his eyes.

"I'm wondering how you can think so kindly of me that I'm considered worth your life, except for me being a husband and a father. Why, Athos?"

Athos rubbed a thumb over his pulse and looked pensive and honest.

"No-one could ask for a finer student. You brought back a purpose to my life. To not only protect the King and France with my fencing and wit, but to pass on those skills to you was a privilege. D'Artagnan, fate didn’t grant me a son, and my brother was taken from me. But I feel as if you filled that particular void inside me, where I want to give a man my love and trust. As I feel about Porthos and Aramis."

D'Artagnan licked his dry lips and chuckled brokenly, "I was just a farm-boy from Gascony." The warm hand stilled on his skin.

"You walked through flames for me," Athos whispered and his eyes were trained reverently on his previous charge.

"What are you talking about?” d'Artagnan frowned, fearing they had lost Athos to incomprehensive ramblings, but the other man shook his head and clutched the back of d'Artagnan’s shirt with a calloused hand from years with a sword in hand.

“You walked through fire at la Fère and you saved me from my past.”

“The first thing I heard the day after I no longer considered you the murderer of my father, was you begging an execution squad to shoot you. I’m grateful that you heeded that request later, and embraced life,” d'Artagnan confessed.

“I've had Porthos and Aramis making each day worth treasuring. But after the fire in the mansion I found another reason to stay on this earth, if only to prevent you from dashing headless into deadly situations.”

Aramis brushed a hand over Athos' arm delicately.

Athos, the sun is almost down."

Athos turned his head to the wall where the last beams of dusk hit. "Its time."

Panic flared in d'Artagnan's breast and he wanted for a foolish moment to hold onto Athos and never let him go. But he clenched his jaw and would blame himself if he didn't grant Athos this end instead of one in sickness. He leaned back, felt the hand slip from his nape, and allowed Aramis and Porthos to get near one either side of him; all of them sheltering Athos from the looming door.

"We will come back as soon as we have reinforcements and weapons. We won’t let them desecrate your body,” d'Artagnan murmured and received a thankful nod so familiar it plagued his mind.

Aramis made a cross over Athos face and searched his face with restless eyes. "This isn't suicide, Athos. Your deed for us will secure your place in heaven."

"I certainly hope so," the other man said under his breath.

"You better, so we can meet again someday," Porthos admonished and with his right arm he hauled Athos into a steady but soft embrace that didn't aggravate either of their damaged bodies.

"You'll look dashing with a gloria turning your hair golden," Aramis joked through tears as he straightened his own doublet; readied himself for the inevitable separation.

Then Athos got to his feet gingerly from remaining on a hard floor for days in his age, but once he stood, he was tall and proud. His end had a purpose which gave him peace.

He came near the door, unseen through the windows because of the descended darkness. D'Artagnan was steadfast when his eyes followed the disappearing back of his brother.

Athos reached for the handle but his hand hesitated in the air, and D'artagnan would lie if he said he wasn't grateful for another moment, another breath, spent on watching, hearing, sensing, feeling Athos. The ill man spared one last look back at them, his gaze darting between them under the old brim. His eyes looked blue and the gloomy light erased the yellow on his face.

Porthos swallowed with an audible gulp before he gave Athos the last reassurance the man needed to do what he had decided to do to save his friends.

"We are here, Athos. You know that. We are with you with our minds if not in bodies."

Athos blinked rapidly while his eyes gleamed with tears of a human, living man. "I know. You are all _here_."

He held his open hand over his heart.

Then, Athos began laughing terribly like a madman; his face contorted with pain the action brought his liver. "I've killed them all! I'm coming out. Long live the Inseparables!" Athos moved quickly and wrenched open the door before he dashed outside.

D'Artagnan started at the deafening onslaught of musket fire. He got up on his feet and ran out the door with Aramis and Porthos following. In that blurred moment of fleeing to live another day, he noticed a collapsed shape on the dark ground, brutally shot down and living no more.

***

Porthos forgot to bring back sweets for Sandrine and Alexandre. Instead he brought salty tears with him to their household.

Aramis, d'Artagnan, and Porthos had fled from the forest and had found a village where they mustered a band of men who assisted in hunting down the highwaymen. The Captain and his former musketeers managed to buy a cart and an ox to bring Athos back to Paris where he would be put to rest with the respect he deserved.

Neither of the three men sitting on or walking slowly beside the cart did anything to the body except wiping off the mud and blood. It would have felt like Athos was further away from them if they heaped summer flowers around his frame. There would be plenty of bouquets at the funeral. Besides, the absence of decorations made sense considering what life Athos had chosen to lead. His was a soldier's death, not a count's. He had voluntarily traded the perfume of forget-me-nots for the smell of gun powder. Who was d'Artagnan to chase away the smell from Athos' clothes with flowers?

In the end, Porthos didn't lose his arm. But d'Artagnan knew that a piece from every one of them had been cut off nevertheless. Nothing could ever be the same. To Constance's despair, he didn't spend more than a few days from the garrison at a time during the next twelve years.

Ever since the loss that horrific summer, the three remaining friends always wore a piece of blue fabric on their person. A satin ribbon around an arm, a sturdy headband, a tight sash tied at the hips. It was a private badge for honoring and remembering Athos' sacrifice. Not black, they had decided, neither the tragic light blue of unmentioned flowers. Instead they settled on a shade of deep royal blue; ever making them reminiscent of the brotherhood of musketeers, France and the one colour a noble man had favoured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. I didn't expect this chapter to be posted a month after the first, but some parts of it gave me grief (literally). I'll hopefully post the next soon. 
> 
> I just thought that it's so inconceivable that Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan would let Athos sacrifice himself, so what would make them accept the deed? An incurable illness.  
> Without looking into historical accuracy, I made Athos have liver failure with some serious, and in the end fatal, symtoms. I gathered the details from this site: http://www.webmd.com/digestive-disorders/digestive-diseases-liver-failure
> 
> Brace yourself for the next chapter, and I'll go weep now. (Athos!!)


	3. Constance

_Some gentler love doth ease itself_  
 _Into my heart and mind_  
 _For I am soft and made of snow_  
 _Love, be more cruel or so be kind -_ The Virgin Queen, Mediæval Bæbes

 

D’Artagnan wove and unclenched his fingers around those he knew almost as well as his own. Calloused where a needle had been sitting over the years matched those he wore from the unyielding grip on a sword.

His darker skin made the greyer hairs on his hand stand out more starkly, and d’Artagnan happily focused on the white hands that were intercepted by green veins amongst the wrinkles. Like imported porcelain; beautiful and delicate but deceptively sturdy unless handled carelessly. Yes, that was his Constance.

D’Artagnan lifted his bearded chin from her shoulder and raised his protesting leg so it could press firmly against hers and keep it from dropping off the edge of the upholstered bench.

They had stayed on the bench the entire morning and a fair share of the afternoon. It didn’t matter that Aramis and Porthos had come to Paris and stayed at an inn, waiting for a visit by d’Artagnan.

Constance lay securely against him and had her face turned to the open window overlooking their prosperous garden. Her fingers played idly with his.

She had been very determined to have the last say where they would place the furniture years ago. D’Artagnan and Alexandre had staggered in the end when the final adjustments to the angling of the bench were over. But the wife and mother had been quick to praise them for their strength and award them with warm bread. Then she and Sandrine had arranged the bolsters they had sewn on the bench and the whole family admired the white wood and the green fabric with colourful flowers.

Back then, the bench had been new; bought barely dry from the celebrated carpenter in Paris. Now it, and the people it had lent support to, bore the signs of aging.

Alexandre was participating in the most adventurous and vital missions on behalf of the Royal family. As a young musketeer he had excellent sword skills but was never working beside his father; always below his Captain. Alexandre had accepted the necessary order of things since d’Artagnan couldn’t quit his work just yet, not when the need to make a better world still burned inside him.

Sandrine was bringing up a baby boy on the other side of Paris alongside her loving husband who worked as an apothecary. In Sandrine’s words, it was good to have one part of the d’Artagnan family that wasn’t obsessed with fencing and riding dashingly.

Her husband was a mild man who, albeit with diminishing energy lately due to the demands of a newborn child waking up in the middle of the night, secretly provided medicine at a low price when the physician at the garrison had need for resources fast.

So far, d’Artagnan had kept Sandrine’s husband’s involvement in musketeer business secret from Sandrine and Constance. He couldn’t bear to hurt his daughter by admitting that her husband maybe had a streak of musketeer quality within his gentle exterior. Or rather, he didn’t wish to break it to her that she had been drawn to that kind of man despite her intentions, and be subjected to her rage. Yes, d’Artagnan could say to friends that he feared his daughter.

How could time go by so rapidly that his little girl had transformed into a proud woman? Where had all the years gone?

“You’re thinking of something.”

Pulled from his mind, d’Artagnan shifted his arms around Constance’s frame and murmured into her still red curls that had escaped her hairpins, “I’m thinking of inviting Sandrine and her family for a dinner. It’s been weeks since we last saw our grandchild.”

The white hands patted his lightly. “That wasn’t what you were thinking, but it’s a good idea. But wait until after the…”

D’Artagnan let steel enter his voice when he interrupted, “Don’t say that! Never say that in my presence.”

He received a slap on his arm and he knew he deserved it for the impolite tone he had used. “Don’t you dare decide what I can or can’t say in my own house! Not now.”

“Forgive me,” d’Artagnan relented and his apologizing kisses on her ear made her flared anger melt away.

Constance continued, “Now, I know it’s a weakness of yours to never plan ahead and recklessly move without thinking of the consequences, but this will have consequences for you, my love, and therefore I wish to prepare you and help you for when I’m not here anymore.”

“I detest imagining a world without you when I actually have you in my arms,” d’Artagnan confessed.

Constance shifted so the grey chemise slid higher above her bodice and to his despair covered more of her cleavage. She turned her frame, happened to dig a shoulder into his ribs but he said nothing when her lovely, worried face came into view. Large eyes compelled him to listen to knowledge she would share.

“Wait with the family dinner until after the funeral. That’s when you may pull yourselves together and continue despite my absence. My children and my grandchild shall not see me in this state. I want them to remember their Constance as radiant and full of life. Not as a bony hag.”

On instinct, d’Artagnan tightened his embrace. “You’re the most beautiful, lustrous _hag_ I’ve ever beheld.”

Adoring eyes met his steady, earnest gaze. “Your flattery always turned my body to butter. How can you only with your voice affect me so?”

D’Artagnan bent down and rubbed his nose against hers, noting it was a little cold from the breeze through the open window.

“Words were all I had for a long time before I had enough funds to make a home for myself and you. Constance, I’m sorry I didn't give you more dresses and necklaces. You should have gotten more presents from me.”

Unexpectedly, his wife pinched his hip and he jerked from the instant pain.

”If I cared more about silk and jewelry than your ardent affection I wouldn't be me. I am rich, husband. Two beautiful clever children and a loving, honorable man. Not a bad feat for a simple Parisian girl,” Constance chided.

“You're anything but simple,” d’Artagnan argued in a whisper and stroked a hand over her collarbones that were whole and unmarred. His own set had been broken eight years earlier after a nasty fall and had meant a long time of fretting from Constance when his shoulders had slumped too much and Aramis had ordered him, despite d’Artagnan being the Captain and Aramis the physician, to bed-rest so his body could heal and his arms would be functioning again.

Constance drew a deep breath and her jaw tensed when she spoke.

“If you found yourself captivated by another woman after my passing, don’t feel guilty. I want you to be happy with what you can yet gain from life even without me.”

D’Artagnan frowned down at her. “I won’t even look at another. Don’t give me your blessing.”

She fingered at a button on his shirt that she had attached once only for it to never fall off.

“But I’m not having you blame yourself for seeking comfort when you’re lonely. Alexandre is so often sent away to other cities and Sandrine is busy creating a home. I won’t have you pacing from room to room in our house, moping night after night without speaking to anyone. Especially once you resign your commission and retire.”

D’Artagnan cupped her face and tilted it up and she was filling his heart with joy and his eyes with light.

“You are my first love, Constance.”

“And you are mine, she said, a blush heating her cheeks under his palms. D’Artagnan was surprised even after a long marriage.

“I am?”

“Of course you are. Dashingly handsome, just, and straightforward, like me. We were a match back then with our similar backgrounds erasing any possible obstacle between classes. France is built by hardworking common people like us. I value that. And you taught me how to shoot. I was married off young to father’s choice for a spouse. How could I have time to fall in love before my marriage to Jacques?”

D’Artagnan kissed her on her temple and heard her giggle and felt the vibration from her mirth when his moustache tickled her ridged forehead.

“I thought every boy in Paris had their eyes set on such a sweet girl long before I came here.”

She smiled at him. “So many compliments you’re heaping over me. You grew into a proper gentleman, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan gave her a cheeky smirk. “I don’t know about that. I didn’t ask for permission to kiss you this time either,” he answered and they both recalled their first chaotic meeting on a market beside the muddy street. The warmth in her eyes made him press his luck to protect her happiness.

“Nor did I ask before I kissed your breasts when we were making our first child.”

She pretended to be exasperated when she raised her arm and clutched a handful of his hair until he winced.

“Allow me to correct my previous statement. You _almost_ grew into a gentleman,” she retorted but quickly stopped punishing him and instead dragged her hand through his black strands and made him shiver from the sensation of her nails against his scalp.

Constance idly remarked more to herself than to him, “I should have cut your mane a week ago. You like it not too long.”

She smoothed down errant strands and lowered her gaze to his. “Run your hand through your hair whenever you take off your hat. You hair may be sweet when it’s tousled, but it’s not proper or dignifying for the King’s Captain, so remember that.”

“I will,” d’Artagnan vowed and caught her hand once it was within reach and kissed every calloused finger and hard knuckle. She spoke above him while he paid her hand more respect than that of the Queen.

“Your loyalty to me flatters me, but you mustn’t be alone after I’m gone. When you leave the position as Captain, you will leave Paris. You were brought up in Gascony and without missions to the countryside or the stables at the garrison, you’ll wilt within this loud city. Go to Aramis and Porthos at la Fère. They won’t turn you away when you seek their company.”

Athos had secretly had a new, more modest house built on the land where the old mansion had burned down. No-one knew until his testament was presented and it turned out that he had devised his house to his closest friends to have a large home to share when they eventually grew weary of Paris, with or without families if they ever married, the document had read.

D’Artagnan wriggled restlessly behind Constance. “I don’t wish to impose...”

She snort, unimpressed by his anxiety. “Impose on your best friends? Athos didn't die for you so that you may spend your years as a widower in solitude. You are meant for company, dearest. You’ve taught me that horses live in herds and you grew up beside horses, so you need a group of social creatures around you and Aramis and Porthos keep horses at la Fère. There’s a list of advantages if you move there. Believe me; I’ve given this much more thought than you probably ever could with your impulsive nature. It’s for the best.”

“You make it sound as if I count myself as a horse,” d’Artagnan meekly commented but pondered a future not only absent Constance, but also filled with something new in the green countryside amongst friends.

He sighed at last.

“I don’t want to bicker or tease anymore. This idea seems appealing. But let me just think of you now. My own wife and mother of my children and conqueror of my heart,” d’Artagnan whispered and began rocking Constance soothingly in their never-ending embrace.

Her hand had returned to his shirt and she pushed the button from its loop until the top of his shirt fell apart and revealed his by age softer but still strong chest. She caressed the side where his heart beat the clearest and placed her ear against his warm skin.

“I’m tired, too. I want to sleep. Let me sleep on you.”

She was mumbling and her lashes fluttered shut and he stroked her back and kept her close to him.

Constance emitted quietly, “Tell me about when you first met me. I want to listen to your voice.”

Unable to deny his wife her humble request, d’Artagnan dove into the memories of a passionate, vengeful young man from Gascony running through Paris with guards at his heels, and the presence of a lovely and momentarily convenient woman at the market.

Somewhere between lessons in how to shoot down a bottle and a first mutual kiss, d’Artagnan felt Constance slip away in his arms. Her chest heaved not and the pallor took over the roses on her cheeks. But he kept telling her, because that was what she had asked of him and she was his Constance so he couldn’t possibly manage or dare to stop.

He sat there through nightfall, until daylight. Until a marvelous wedding was taking place in his story. Until his voice was hoarse. Until Porthos and Aramis stepped over the threshold and gently but firmly separated the lifeless woman from a widower who wept on an old bench with faded bolsters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I cry. At first I thought it hard to think up a scenario for when d'Artagnan loses Constance, but then I thought of them in the safety of their home, a serene quietness, and a gentle passing for her. I wrote this in one go, basically. I'm letting you decide whether Constance died from age or from illness, but that wouldn't matter to d'Artagnan, I imagine, since he just wants to fill his senses with his wife before she die, regardless of what incurable cause. I hope you enjoyed this much calmer chapter and prepare for the next. Until then.


	4. Porthos

_When the days are cold_  
 _And the cards all fold_  
 _And the saints we see_  
 _Are all made of gold_ \- Demons, Imagine Dragons

 

“I seek Monsieur d’Artagnan!”

D’Artagnan had risen from the table where a dinner had begun to cool even before the shout echoed in the alley.

The fast drumming of hooves had alerted the retired Captain when he had just taken a seat at his daughter’s table to celebrate her birthday with her family. He hurried to the entrance and opened the door, Sandrine in pursue.

A flushed young messenger rode towards them on a sweating horse. It was Francois of la Fère.

The village boy held out a parchment roll which d’Artagnan grabbed before Francois had stopped his horse.

“Monsieur Aramis wants you to have this,” the boy panted as he turned the horse in a small circle before the doorstep, facing the way from which he had come. D’Artagnan noticed absently how Francois politely bowed to Sandrine who stood tense and only had eyes for her father.

D’Artagnan untied the band on the roll and read the letter. His joy faded like a cloud covering the sun.

“Do you want me to return with an answer, Monsieur?”

“No, I’ll go there myself. Thank you for your haste," d'Artagnan briskly replied. He rummaged through the purse in his belt and gave Francois some valuable coins.

“For your speed and a decent inn tonight,” he explained. The young man thanked him and rode off leisurely after his message had been delivered, with his steaming mount finally able to catch its breath.

D'Artagnan tightened his hand into a fist around the scribbled note and turned to his daughter. “I must return home.”

“What’s happened, papa?”

In the dark eyes that she had inherited from him, d’Artagnan saw worry. Sandrine cared a lot about her uncles by friendship if not by blood.

“Porthos is ill,” d’Artagnan said shortly and incidentally quoted the letter written by Aramis’ shaking hand, given how the neat words wobbled.

D'Artagnan had travelled from la Fère to visit his son and daughter and the garrison. He had been in Paris for a week and had planned to make for home in three days. Now, there could be no delay.

“Then go. We’ll be fine, papa.”

A hand stroke his arm and d’Artagnan searched Sandrine's face.

"Are you sure I’m not hurting you?”

Anguish tinted d’Artagnan’s voice and his fist shook. Steel emerged in Sandrine’s eyes. “I am sure. What’s another birthday to my uncles' wellfare? Go and take care of both of them.”

D’Artagnan pulled her close and pressed a kiss to her temple before dashing into the alley and heading towards the stable where he had rented a place for his own mount.

On his ride out of Paris and onto the road, d’Artagnan considered the meaning behind Aramis’ letter. For an absence not longer than ten days, Aramis usually wouldn’t bother writing at all. All of the three men living in the generous, warm house at la Fère suffered ailments nowadays, which never warranted sending word for a brother. But Aramis’ letter had _meant_ a different thing.

Porthos was dying.

D’Artagnan urged his horse to move faster.

Once he reached the village, he stopped momentraily to restock the pantry with provisions, because it was easy in troubled times like these to forget eating. The villagers barely haggled the price and their somber attitude concerned d'Artagnan. The three former musketeers were respected and appreciated in the area. But news travelled fast and they all knew what illness had befallen Porthos.

At the house he now called home, d'Artagnan rushed his horse inside the stable where he dismounted and led the horse into a booth beside the one Aramis’ horse occupied. D'Artagnan didn’t bother to remove the saddle, the bridle, or the food in the saddlebag. His main focus was on his two old friends. His horse could endure a moment in slight discomfort.

D'Artagnan did however, once he had crossed the yard, make the effort to swipe the dust from his boots before he stalked into the house and went straight towards Porthos’ bedchamber.

With apprehension, he opened the door.

Lit candles illuminated the otherwise gloomy room. Sparse daylight penetrated the curtains drawn over the window. But even in the dimness, d'Artagnan could spot the people occupying the room. In the sturdy bed Porthos lay slumbering without a nightshirt covering his damp chest. Large, dark circles sat under his red-rimmed eyes. The man tossed and turned in his bed restlessly without taking in his company.

Aramis however looked up from the chair in the dark corner and appeared so vulnerable and grateful that d'Artagnan swallowed. Aramis' eyes stayed fixed on him as he hurried from the chair to kneel by the bed, his head silver when the daylight shone over his hair.

Aramis grasped Porthos' hand and grazed his thumb over the scarred knuckles. “Porthos, my friend, we have a visitor at last. D'Artagnan is here.”

Porthos suddenly blinked and aimed his watering eyes on Aramis. “Did d'Artagnan come here?” he breathed. Aramis nodded and gestured at d'Artagnan to approach. D'Artagnan stepped into the room and went around the bed to kneel beside Aramis who guided Porthos by the bearded chin so he could see d'Artagnan.

“Yes, look for yourself. The whelp has returned to see us.”

Porthos exchanged a long look with d'Artagnan and then reached out with one lethargic arm to wrap his hand around the back of d'Artagnan’s neck, as if needing solid proof that his younger friend really was there. As soon as Porthos tocuhed d'Artagnan with a hot hand, the sick man started breathing deeper, easier. The frown lifted from his worn face. At length, Aramis carefully guided the hand back to Porthos side when the man seemed to find no energy to do it himself. This weak helplessness made d'Artagnan understand that Porthos truly was dying.

“Then you are no longer alone,” Porthos emitted towards Aramis. A pleased curve on his lips was a comforting sight.

Aramis on the other hand slumped his shoulders and turned his face towards d'Artagnan. Mingled worry and relief displayed on his taut face. “He has been restless for the entire week. I think he waited for you.”

“I’m here, Porthos. Right beside you,” d'Artagnan reassured his friend while Aramis glanced at him pensively.

“You came back quickly. You drove your mount too hard. The horse could have stumbled and you could have injured yourself.”

D’Artagnan didn’t care for the disapproving tone his friend used.

“It didn’t stumble and I’m here now. Stop fretting about something that didn’t happen.” Then he relented upon seeing the blatant hurt in Aramis’ eyes, “How could I not speed here when I wasn’t certain how Porthos fared? How is he?”

Aramis accepted the reasoning and explained while d'Artagnan caressed Porthos’ warm cheek, “It’s some sort of fever. It’s taxing his strength. It’s worsened lately. I needed to send that message to you.”

“I understand. So do Sandrine. You were right to send for me,” d'Artagnan replied calmly.

If Porthos burned hot, his comrade looked like he was freezing. There was a paleness to Aramis’ usually golden complexion, and his shoulders sat tense below his ears, although the brown eyes spoke of relief for d’Artagnan’s presence. It was clear that Aramis had become exhausted in his tending of Porthos.

D’Artagnan pointed out while grasping Aramis' tight shoulder, “You should have let me know sooner.”

Aramis answered in a whisper, “I guess I was still hoping he would recover…”

The two men looked back at Porthos who swept his gaze around the room before asking in a befuddled tone, “And where is Athos? He should be here, too.”

D’Artagnan answered carefully when Aramis whitened and faltered.

“Porthos, Athos passed away many years ago.”

Porthos stared up at him with fire of sickness burning in his eyes as he fought against it.

“But we would stay in his heart and he would stay in ours,” he groaned.

“And he is here,” Aramis acknowledged while sending a challenging look at d'Artagnan, clearly warning him from upsetting Porthos further. D'Artagnan was aching for that state of both of the older men.

However, Porthos fastened his sluggish gaze past his friends, on a spot by the curtain and murmured reverently, “Yes, I can see him.”

A chill went through d’Artagnan, but he also wasn’t keen on investigating any possible specters in the room. If Athos truly, amazingly, were here for Porthos, d’Artagnan wouldn’t chase him away.

Aramis let out a sob and wove his fingers with Porthos’ into a colourful pattern.

Porthos turned his attention from the corner and to Aramis instead. He remarked slowly when vigour was failing him, “You shouldn’t be kneeling, Aramis. It’s bad for your knees."

Aramis rolled his eyes and answered through a teary chuckle, “I have endured quite a lot of kneeling in my life, in virtue and in sin, and you, my friend, are worth kneeling for.”

“Cheeky romantic hero,” Porthos sighed with a hint of his old teasing.

Aramis reached out and tugged gently on the ring in Porthos’ ear. “You’re one to talk, berserk pirate.”

Porthos retort softly, “Then show me the gold in those brown eyes of yours.”

The corners of Aramis' lips were pulled upwards and the grey moustache sloped a little less. D'Artagnan could see the rekindled glint in Aramis' eyes.

“That’s it,” Porthos approved and the two men shared a warm smile.

Then a shudder went through Porthos and d’Artagnan made himself useful by lifting a soaked cloth from a bowl of water and dabbed sweat from Porthos’ skin. Porthos hummed in pleasure at the coolness as d’Artagnan washed his wrinkled face, his neck, his chest, his arm where a jagged scar ran along a muscle.

“Thank you, d’Artagnan. How fares the family?” Porthos emitted.

“Sandrine received many presents for her birthday. And you were right in your last betting; her apothecary wasn’t deterred by sleepless nights caring for a newborn. They’re expecting one more child.”

Porthos managed a smirk and said, “Time to pay up, Aramis.”

Aramis stroke Porthos' forehead and retorted pleadingly, “Let’s settle the debt when we’ve both seen proof that d’Artagnan speaks the truth. Just a few more months is all I’m asking for, Porthos. Please.”

“Don’t be a fool, my dear friend. Although, I accept that you will wait with paying, since you were such a nice nurse to me.”

“First a seamstress, now a nurse. You’re a brave man to tease a former musketeer,” Aramis answered and Porthos' eyes seemed clearer.

“All for another smile from you," Porthos sighed and then let his head fall sideways so he could take in d'Artagnan dutifully wringing the cloth over the bowl. "And how is the heir on the position as Captain?” Porthos wondered and d'Artagnan made a grimace.

“Don’t jinx it, please. My Alexandre gets nervous like a man readying himself for a proposal whenever he goes to the palace. I’ve told him over and over that to be a musketeer takes more than fencing and upholding the law. But the boy stays anxious when he meets the King. Then, he suddenly lacks dignity and confidence and looks like he’s expecting His Majesty to demote him at any time.”

Porthos advised mildly, “Go easy on him, d’Artagnan. Even you lacked social skills with the court those first years. He’ll find faith in himself in time. Oh, and perhaps His Majesty’s old lifeguard should pay a visit and persuade him to rather let the poor Captain remain in the garrison than dance and convere with nobles in fancy ballrooms?”

Porthos raised an eyebrow at Aramis who lowered his shoulders a bit. “Perhaps I will.”

Porthos sank back and rested his head on the pillow. “Good. Family is all that matters, in the end. Even friends who become your family. I’m so grateful for your place in my long life.”

Porthos looked exhausted but content when he let his gaze wander from friend to friend. Aramis clasped his free hand over their joined hands and d'Artagnan grew attentive as moments went by and Porthos didn't seem to regain the energy he had spent.

After a silent time, the sick old man uttered with a wonderous murmur, “How happy I’ve been. I had freedom. I had friends. My heart was filled with joy and love.”

Porthos’ voice caught, then he stuttered out faintly while his eyes were closing at his own will, “I’m glad I received so much from life… from you.”

Porthos’ chest heaved one more time and then the mighty lion fell into eternal sleep.

D'Artagnan flinched at how cold and pale Porthos immediately looked in death. He truly had left this world.

Aramis was holding a limp hand between his and whispered something, a prayer, against Porthos' knuckles while tears streamed down his lined face.

D'Artagnan allowed himself a moment to grieve and solely focus on his own companionship with Porthos and the loss. Then he struggled to stand with creaking knees and stumbled back towards the chair in the corner. He sat down and gazed upon the shell of a man he once knew for long hours that night.

Aramis kept praying. First one his knees, then beside Porthos when Aramis climbed onto the bed and lay down on his side, above the dirty blanket and yellow sheet but curled up next to the unmoving body.

Sometime at dawn, d'Artagnan realized what Porthos had intended with his persisting restlessness so long before his death. He was holding out for d’Artagnan’s arrival. For a chance to say goodbye to d'Artagnan, and for Aramis’ sake. The one surviving older musketeer in their little circle wouldn’t be left alone without a living person nearby, if Porthos had a say in it. In his last moment, Porthos spared Aramis from another Savoy.

The sublimity of that gesture was what made d'Artagnan want to carry out Porthos’ wish. It was neither his duty, nor his burden to take care of Aramis. It was his privilege.

D'Artagnan rubbed his itching eyelids, lifted himself from the chair, and bore the ache that had set in his tired bones lately.

He stepped up to Aramis’s side of the bed and bent to touch his shoulder.

“Aramis.”

Aramis appeared to not listen to d'Artagnan’s soft voice. He prayed with more intensity.

“Aramis?” d'Artagnan called gently, never letting go of his friend’s shoulder. Who knew what ghosts plagued Aramis sometimes that could make him uncertain whether he truly was surrounded by living people.

Then, d'Artagnan heard what Aramis repeatedly whispered brokenly after a full night of praying. “Misereirei mei. Miserere. Miserere mei Deus. Miserere mei Deus. Miserere mei Deus”

Bewildered by the words, d'Artagnan crouched by the bed and stroke slick tendrils from the other man’s wrinkled forehead.

“Dear Aramis, why are you asking God to have mercy on _you_?”

Aramis turned his head to meet D'Artagnan’s gaze. Aramis features were bereft of mirth.

"Dear d'Artagnan, I pray not for Porthos’ soul. He with his big heart and his loyalty and love shall pass right through purgatory and be embraced by our savior.”

Glassy brown eyes filled with unshed tears broke d'Artagnan's heart, and with a hoarse whimper, Aramis continued, “But I beg God for mercy for _me_. For fifty years has he walked beside me and now he is gone from me. I am lost. The world seems colder.”

Aramis bit hard into his lip and let tears flow freely on either side of his nose. “He said he was looking after me. Who will do that now?”

‘I will, dear Aramis,’ d'Artagnan vowed in his mind as he wound an arm around Aramis’ trembling frame and guided the aged man up into a seated position on the bed, because Porthos would have needed him to take care of Aramis in this moment; not the spiritless body that lay in the middle of the cooling deathbed.

“Come with me, Aramis. I’ve brought bread and milk and honey for you. It’s morning. You need to eat.”

Aramis rose gingerly from the wake. D’Artagnan supported more than escorted a swaying Aramis out of the room where their companion was no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no... My dear Porthos :( I broke when I wrote the sentence about Savoy. And in the series, Porthos said after Alice that he would look after Aramis. There was a real prayer called Miserere, written in the 1630's by Italian composer Gregorio Allegri. I imagine that Aramis found this prayer and endorsed it. I hope that those of you who like shipping Porthos with Aramis noticed the hints I placed in this chapter. A life remote from busy Paris, mostly alone in a large house could offer privacy despite the opinions of the time. Now, as you may see (or count), there're only two people and chapters left. Poor d'Artagnan. Until the next update, y'all!


	5. Aramis

_The rain has moved on_  
 _And left a new day_  
 _Nothing seems to move, everything is still_  
 _It's just a perfect day_ \- Perfect Day, Miriam Stockley

The old pair sat under the plum tree. Aramis in a woven armchair angled towards the rest of the garden, d’Artagnan on a wooden chair opposite of him so he could keep an eye on the ajar door to Athos’ house as they aired the house and let in spring.

Aramis appeared serene underneath the hat, the shawl, and the blanket over his lap, even as he kept one of those cursed frilly, laced handkerchiefs folded in his hand.

Despite the peaceful afternoon, they, or rather d’Artagnan, were having a row.

“No! Don’t you dare use that trick on me!” d’Artagnan spat at Aramis who looked perfectly innocent and shocked in the soft sunshine.

“What?”

“Asking me to bring you your quilt from the house so the moment I turn my back, you cease to live so to _spare_ my feelings,” d’Artagnan snarled. “I won’t have it, and you will not think I’m still a foolish, dumb country boy.”

Aramis squirmed a little in his armchair, and the blush on his cheeks proved his guilt.

“But you always were a young, hotheaded fool compared to us. Although, you certainly kept us from a mundane service, otherwise we would have been bored out of our minds,” Aramis argued mildly before he bowed his head and coughed.

D’Artagnan heard how wet his older friend sounded and when Aramis brought the damned handkerchief to his mouth, d’Artagnan averted his eyes. He could no longer stand to witness how the white fabric turned redder and redder. It was strange how much hate one could hoard for a heap of regularly washed handkerchiefs.

However, d’Artagnan wasn’t delusional about Aramis’ weakness. Aramis stemmed from a warmer part of the world, having grown up more to the south than even d’Artagnan of Gascony, and now Aramis paid the price for the abundance of prosperity in his childhood’s Spain. It probably would have made him a hardier man if he had been born in the damp and chilly north of France. Perhaps then he would have had more years to spend with d’Artagnan in the tempered climate south of Paris, at la Fère.

Aramis drew a partly free breath without obstruction in his lungs or throat. The coughing fit had ended and Aramis fell back in his chair as he wiped his mouth meticulously. The now stained handkerchief was being folded again and d’Artagnan could take in how weary Aramis looked . He almost didn’t recognize his friend’s voice when he spoke hoarsely.

“Not even a serious case of pneumonia or a heroic wound sustained in battle! A simple cold will rob me of my worldly existence!” Aramis bemoaned his fate, though a twinkle remained in his peering eyes.

D’Artagnan sighed, ran his dry hand over his weather-beaten face, and got up to rearrange the awry hat on Aramis’ head.

It was early spring with a fairly warming sun and chirping birds finding love amongst the trees in the garden. Aramis wore a ridiculously long shawl around his neck and was proud of the garment he had managed to knit all by himself during the winter with Athos-blue yarn.

“Look at the state of you. Not presentable to any possible guest we might get,” d’Artagnan murmured as he tilted the hat right and smoothed down the blanket where it had creased. He crouched down on the ground despite protesting knees on frozen dirt, and aching back, to see whether Aramis’ toes were still warm inside his boots. Naturally, Aramis couldn’t resist teasing when d’Artagnan was in that position.

“What are you doing down there? Stop peeking and fiddling under my blanket.”

“There wouldn’t be so much fiddling if you were a sensible old man who knew when to stay indoors and when it’s safe to venture outside.”

Aramis angled a slow kick at d’Artagnan who dodged it by leaning sideways and putting a hand on the cold ground to help push himself up again and return to his chair.

“I’ve been cooped up in the house for months! I wanted to see the sun. But you’re making it hard to enjoy the day when you’re mothering me.”

“You’re the one who insisted that one blanket was enough until you actually felt how cold it is and demanded your quilt,” d’Artagnan retorted in a petty tone.

They bickered in a friendly way nowadays. D’Artagnan only had one friend of old left in the entire world and he treasured the companionship with Aramis. He had embraced the desire to look after Aramis after Porthos demise.

He knew he could never replace Athos or Porthos to Aramis, but perhaps he himself was held in higher esteem in Aramis’ eyes after his loyal closeness at la Fère. D’Artagnan’s children could make their way through life without their papa in Paris, and Aramis needed him more.

Now, Aramis pouted which made him look like a bristling owl. The once handsome musketeer had by time been turned into a truly terrifying gaffer.

Aramis emitted quietly, “You’ve gotten overbearing when you look after me in these last few years. So I guess it’s only fair that you build the fleur-de-lis that will be nailed on my coffin.”

D’Artagnan’s face fell and he felt the blood drain from his cheeks. Aramis lifted his gaze over the shawl and offered a small and devastatingly beautiful smile that did nothing to soothe d’Artagnan’s unexpected bout of fear.

“There, there. Don’t be a foolish boy who can’t see what’s coming. My time on this earth is coming to an end and the decay of my poor body is evidence of that,” Aramis comforted rather soberly before he looked over d’Artagnan’s shoulder.

D’Artagnan was still upset with the request his friend had made, but he had no opportunity to interrupt when Aramis began one of his usual monologues that couldn’t be stopped. How awful for a man who loved to talk to suffer from a blood-cough that muted him and damaged his voice.

“I’m contented with life. I’ve done good things, bad things, and great things. Ha, to father and defend a prince and king of France; that’s not a bad feat, right?”

Aramis chuckled and no bitterness tinted his maltreated throat anymore as had been the case frequently decades ago.

“His personal and most beloved musketeer. Oh, how Athos disapproved of my union with Anne, but he never berated me for the child she and I created. Nor did Porthos. Ahh, our sensitive Porthos. Do you remember when he found out? He was mostly upset with the fact that Athos and I had kept a secret from him, not that the dauphin had the blood of Herblay and not the royal Bourbon in him.”

D’Artagnan hurried to interject, “Though, he, and you and Athos for that matter, were all more furious when I… spread fleas to you.”

Aramis groaned in a pained way and pinched his nose. “I’m still angry. And you had the nerve to complain when you were sent to Toulouse on a mission.”

D’Artagnan tapped his knee nervously, wary of Aramis’ still present irritation with him.

“Well, that was an extremely faraway destination. I lost my fleas in Bourges on my way down already.”

“But we had to sleep in the stable of the garrison for weeks before we were welcomed back to our lodgings!”

Aramis raised his hands into the air in despair and d’Artagnan leaned back against the back of his chair and smirked.

“You can’t say I bored you.”

Aramis’ contorted features melted into a mild smile.

“Every day with the musketeers was both a disaster and a party. And it’s always best to leave when the party is at its best, I’ve found from my own experience. Especially those festivities at Madame Angel’s tended to get out of hand and decline after we had broken the seals on those green bottles. But for all I enjoyed those wild nights, they could never compare to the adventurous days. To be with Porthos, Athos, and you was a joy. I’ll be glad to see them again. It’s been a long wait.”

Aramis ended the speech with a melancholic sigh. He didn’t sound grating this time. Maybe he was getting better from this week-long fit.

D’Artagnan rubbed his chilled hands together slowly and stared at Aramis’ that lay peacefully over the handkerchief in his lap. He had to suffer from cold fingers as well in the scarcely sunny spring.

Just as d’Artagnan made to leave his chair and help getting those poor fingers under the blanket, Aramis moved his head and fastened his eyes on something behind d’Artagnan.

Aramis exclaimed cheerfully, “Look, the first bud of a cherry blossom.”

D’Artagnan turned, saw the beauty, and just as his heart sang for the hope of another returning summer, his insides clenched when he realized his mistake.

He turned back.

The spotted handkerchief lay abandoned on the crisp grass. Aramis truly was cured. He had no need for handkerchiefs where he had gone now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, d'Artagnan is now alone. I cry. You know how some people seem better right before they die? Of course Aramis would be like that, and somehow trick d'Artagnan so he could choose the right moment to go without d'Artagnan holding him back. Also, I imagine that Aramis sometimes in his life suffered from the distance to his secret son at court, so that is why he sometimes grew bitter.  
> I recently rewatched the series and noticed the wooden fleur-de-lis that is nailed to "Athos'" coffin in episode 10. I imagine for this story that even when retired, former musketeers who might not have died in battle still received that honour as they were being buried.  
> Well, one chapter left, and this time there will be joy alongside the pain. I'll see you then.


	6. D'Artagnan

_Who wants to live forever_   
_Who wants to live forever?_   
_Who dares to love forever?_   
_When love must die_   
  
_But touch my tears with your lips_   
_Touch my world with your fingertips_

_And we can have forever_  
 _And we can love forever_  
 _Forever is our today_ \- Who Wants To Live Forever – Queen

The summer months meant long visits by the families of Sandrine and Alexandre. D’Artagnan’s children wished for a respite from the dusty, hot streets and houses of Paris, and La Fère served as a wonderful place for the tumbling grandchildren of d’Artagnan.

What was good about summer was the ongoing company. Not that d’Artagnan thought of himself as isolated the rest of the year. He had a woman from the village cleaning the house now and then, another doing laundry, a man tending to the garden and the façade and another one bringing supplies weekly. But between the occasional visits by employees and family, d’Artagnan was if not lonely then at least missing somebody.

When his body’s strength began to fail him, the old man had to occupy himself with tasks that required no hard labour, preferably inside where warmth stayed.

He took to reading through the vast library, polishing silverware, crafting useful things and pretty decorations, and attempting to write his memoirs, though that work often made him dispirited. He often found himself commenting on an amusing episode and turning towards someone agreeing with him and laughing with him, and finding himself alone in the study.

So many years had passed since his losses, and yet his instincts compelled him to seek out those who were no longer with him. The moon was the only company for d’Artagnan on the nights when he shifted towards the left side of the bed even if he was the sole person sleeping in it.

Throughout autumn, winter, and spring, d’Artagnan suffered from a coldness that not only clutched around his withering body, but also his soul. He had lost them all and the love from Sandrine and Alexandre couldn’t cover for the lack of love from a wife and friends.

There were so many days when he set the table for six people and toasted with red wine sloshing inside crystal glass for the current friend whose birthday or deathday they… no, _he_ remembered.

Those times late in the evening when no employee would come by and disturb him, d’Artagnan could allow himself to confide in Athos, joke with Porthos, join Aramis in teasing Constance, and trade stories from the garrison with Treville.

The charades lasted until the bottle of wine was empty and d’Artagnan finally took in the untouched cutlery, the empty plates, and the stains on the cloth caused only by his own clumsiness.

Sometimes he turned to God and asked for an answer to why he had been left behind. His children were grown citizens with families and the musketeers were led by a capable Captain bearing the name Alexandre.

There was no grand purpose left in d’Artagnan’s life. So why did the almighty one let him wake up each day and battle aching limbs year after year?

Perhaps it was so he could watch from afar how his grandchildren carried on the legacy of their line each summer such as this sunny one.

D’Artagnan raised his gaze from the memoirs and looked outside the window.

Some of the children had their heads adorned by soft, dark hair of Gascony and others wielded wooden swords. Some of the smaller creatures sprinted across the grass with old curtains with seams that still held fluttering behind their outstretched, chubby arms. The little one slumbered in the safe cradle which the wife of Alexandre gently rocked as she rested in an armchair and overlooked the playing cousins in the garden.

Of course the babe was dressed in a white dress which Constance had once made for their second grandchild.

Sandrine and her husband, at last an honorary musketeer for his help with providing medicine for the guards of the King, had gone to the village to dine with the miller, absent children for once.

They had walked there and so, when hooves stomped on the ground and created an echo that reached inside the house, d’Artagnan momentarily froze with fear of what unknown person had arrived when all his precious family was outside and unguarded.

He was on the verge of stumbling to his feet and unsheathing his neglected sword in the study when a happy holler sounded into the garden.

“Who wants canded oranges in this paradise?” D’Artagnan could hear how Alexandre rode into the yard and dashingly jumped off his horse while the children stopped playing and turned to Alexandre’s wife with pleas and jumping feet to make mama and aunt please allow them some sweet fruit.

Once Alexandre must have left his mount in the stable, he ran into the picture the window provided, swept up a tittering daughter in his arms, danced with sister-children, and slowly made his way towards the calmer spot in the garden where his wife waited with a warm, if eye-rolling face.

As the children gathered around and the sleeping baby received a kiss on the forehead, d’Artagnan sat back, and grumbled to no-one.

“He’s spoiling the children," Athos soberly agreed with d’Artagnan while Porthos smiled and argued, “Let them indulge in sweetness if they can afford it.”

Aramis pointed out mischievously, “Don’t you remember how well we performed whenever we were treated to fine, uplifting goods from faraway lands?”

Treville huffed, “You mean what you stole from my personal desk only to get headaches after the sugar worn off?”

Constance wrapped her shawl around herself and softly advised d’Artagnan who listened carefully, “If our son can give oranges to the children, who are you to deny them the added happiness in a blessed life?”

D’Artagnan blinked and felt the dampness in his tired eyes. He rubbed at the lids with a rough knuckle and decided to return to the memoirs. But as he picked up the feather pen, a neigh reached his keen rider’s ear.

D’Artagnan sighed grumpily and put down the tool. He lifted his gaze and watched how Alexandre was giving away cleft after cleft to the assembled group beneath his feet. The Captain’s mind was on his family right now. D’Artagnan decided to not rap on the glass and disturb the peaceful scene for another reminder, even if his son needed it.

Alexandre liked horses as much as his father, but he had a tendency to forget to remove the bridles when he returned home with his mounts. It was best if d’Artagnan investigated on the state of the animals.

He rose tediously from the creaking armchair and shuffled towards the door, rebelliously ignoring the cane that leaned against a chest of drawers.

The old man made his way slowly across the yard, where the hens chattered and flapped their wings, and entered the stable.

Bijou was neighing when she saw her old master but her son Voyageur was restlessly shifting in his space. Indeed, a too tight and obviously bothering bridle was strapped to his muzzle. And the saddle was weighing on the young steed’s back.

D’Artagnan unlocked the gate and walked into Voyageur’s stall.

“Good evening. Good boy. Let’s sort you out,” he announced his presence with.

His experienced, if trembling hands, loosened the straps on the bridle until it slipped off. Voyageur shook his head and bared his teeth.

“Glad for the freedom? I can imagine. Must be a starving diet to only chew leather and steel,” d’Artagnan commented idly as he put down the bridle by the gate. He was firmly reminding himself to remember to berate Alexandre for being so easily distracted from his duty to his important, trusting companion during journeys.

When d’Artagnan grabbed the loosened saddle and lifted, the heavy weight threw him off his balance. He stumbled against Voyageur’s flank with the saddle slamming harshly into the animal.

The young horse started and instinctively kicked out just as d’Artagnan fell behind him.

The hooves punched d’Artagnan’s fragile body and he was sent against the stone wall of the stable. As his body fell alongside the unyielding wall, his head hit the wooden stool used by Alexandre’s children when they wanted to sit on Voyageur’s back while their father gently guided the animal around the yard.

As d’Artagnan lay in the hay and wheezed from the flaring pain in his wounded body, the ceiling of the stable rapidly turned blurrier and darker. He came to a realization. ‘This is it. This was life.’ The darkness swallowed the old broken man.

***

Was this Gascony?

A familiar golden light and warmth which had reached a state where one could feel utterly comfortable but not stifled awakened d’Artagnan’s senses.

A breeze rustled his clothes and caused silken strands to caress his cheeks. D’Artagnan frowned with his eyes remaining closed. It had been a long time since his hair was soft, long, and black.

He opened his eyes and drew a deep breath of fresh air that filled his lungs with life. He was standing up, dressed in his long gone brown doublet, a clean white shirt, hardy trousers, and shining boots.

As he gazed down to take in his clothes, he noticed the smooth, olive skin of the back of his hands, the power in them when his clenched them into fists, how the green veins showed nakedly without moles and scars he had gained in his long life.

A shadow blocked the golden light from hitting his hands, and d’Artagnan raised his head only to stare at the presence before him. Constance took her place beside him and oh how he had missed his wife.

“My love, I have you with me again,” she said with a healthy glow on her round cheeks.

D’Artagnan was still muted by movement, but met her when she rose on her toes and sought out his mouth. They kissed and d’Artagnan felt the years drain from his mind.

His wife. His woman. His Constance.

“Constance,” he moaned yearningly and rubbed his forehead against hers, then down her temple where curls tickled his skin.

“I’m here,” she answered his beckoning call.

She placed a hand on his cheek, traced his jawline with a finger, and guided his face back so they could look upon each other. She wove her arm around d’Artagnan’s elbow, stepped around to stand pressed to his side and whispered encouragingly while adoration sparkled in her eyes, “Well, won’t you say hello to your friends now?”

D’Artagnan couldn’t believe what he saw, but in his heart he knew this was a heavenly reward for his life.

He saw Porthos slinging his left arm over Aramis’ shoulders and squeezing until the other man grimaced and began pushing against the embrace.

Athos stood stoically beside them and gave d’Artagnan a liberated, unburdened smile.

Treville nodded at him with dignity and addressed him with unfound respect, “Captain d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan straightened his young back and answered with a gleeful grin as he nodded to Treville and Athos, “Captain. Captain.”

“Captain,” Athos replied and lowered his chin to his chest as he got that familiar ‘Athos smile’.

Aramis managed to free himself from under the oppression of Porthos’ strong, fully functioning arm and called out with a clear and melodic voice that d’Artagnan had longed for during months of hearing coughs and hoarseness, “Yes, yes, enough of the sentimentality between commanders! To the more important subject here; what brought you here, d’Artagnan?”

Athos winced at Aramis’ fearless bluntness, while Treville pursed his lips, and Porthos folded his arms and languidly observed how the scene would unfold.

Constance frowned and d’Artagnan was momentarily transfixed by the tiny wrinkles on her forehead beneath the curly tresses. He patted her on the arm.

“I’m not upset, lovely,” he calmed her with before he let out a chuckle and ran a hand through his long, dark hair, more than a little sheepish.

“Stubbornness, old age, and bad balance. I stumbled in the stable while removing a saddle from my son’s horse.”

Constance bowed her head and clicked her tongue, wordlessly berating him. “Overzealous man,” she soon muttered.

Treville strode up to him, clasped his shoulder and sighed, though humour gleamed through the frustration of his features.

“Tell me you at least didn’t end up with a bruise on your knee.”

With his vigour at last restored, d’Artagnan found himself shrugging boyishly. “I admit it wasn’t the most glorious way to go out in, but I had a good life. I was contented.”

Porthos added gently, “And I can tell you it’s not exactly bad here either. Everyone is equal and it seems like Aramis was, for once, right after all; there’s more generous love than severe judgment to be found here.”

The strong musketeer earned himself a slap on his bulging arm by a disgruntled Aramis but only started to laugh.

“But more so; we’re all together again,” Athos commented steadily as if it didn’t matter to him if they all ended up in hell as long as they were in each other’s company.

D’Artagnan could remember the feeling of no obstacles when his friends had been by his side, until they didn’t due to fate.

With pain in his voice, he let out, “I outlived you. I was alone.”

Sadness was coming through when his friends settled down and looked at him.

“Your time wasn’t up, my friend. There were still things you needed to see and experience. I’m afraid there was nothing in our powers that could make us stay longer with you, no matter how much we wanted to,” Aramis said and d’Artagnan thought for a moment on his large family with all the healthy grandchildren.

Porthos slowly offered comfort when he grabbed d’Artagnan by the shoulder Constance wasn’t grasping. “We were with you every step on the way, boy. You knew that, right?”

“You all stayed with me in my heart. I thought about you every day I walked the earth since I met you,” the man from Gascony admitted.

“Your loyalty to us honours you d’Artagnan. All for one, and one for all. You’re holding on to our motto until the end,” Athos stated and d’Artagnan felt proud at the praise from his mentor.

He nodded. “I did. I _do_. So, what happens now? Do we wait for the next generation… ?“

Constance patted a hand over her beautiful décolletage.

“Goodness no, that will be a while!”

Athos tipped his head towards behind the gathered musketeers in front of d’Artagnan and Constance.

“No, we thought it’s time for another adventure. Are you joining us, d’Artagnan?”

“Of course I am," the young man answered and walked with his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we are. I hope you enjoyed all these chapters and the different settings and deaths that happened. One thing is certain and unevitable in life; death.   
> I felt so sorry for d'Artagnan when I wrote how lonely he was and how much he missed those he had lost. Maybe his death resembled the one of some dogs who withdraw from their family and pack to die alone, away from them. Maybe he knew deep down that he couldn't carry the saddle but did so anyway, because he was an old man who felt he wasn't necessary for the welfare of his family anymore. An accident that none of his family members had to witness weighted the lightest in d'Artagnan's mind, perhaps.   
> Anyway, this was a fascinating prompt to fill and I spent a lot of time to give the story the right amounts of humour, tragedy, comfort, and dignity in death for our beloved characters. Thank you for your support and attention. Until the next musketeer story! /sycamoretree

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly cried while writing this story. Comments are appreciated.


End file.
